


Cleverer

by Tax



Category: Firefly
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Competition, Gen, Underestimating the Competition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 01:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tax/pseuds/Tax
Summary: “I don’t believe in psychology. I believe in good moves.”– Bobby Fischer





	Cleverer

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a small expansion of a three-sentence fic, but then it became something else. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ It also fills 'Bets and Wages' for Trope BINGO, so I'm going with it.

It was left in a gridlock by the time Mal had up and walked away.

Kaylee was out because the engine needed tending to. Being up to her elbows in grease and bolts was enough of an excuse for the crew to give her a pass for the week.

Book was out because he was out. Physically, that was. He’d set off a few days back to meet with some of the Shepards from an Abbey of his past and he wasn’t due back for at least three days time. Mal hadn’t been inclined to ask too many questions, if any at all.

Zoë was out because she and Inara had pitched in a few days prior. They’d done their share for the week.

Wash was out because Mal wasn’t sure how he had survived on his own as a bachelor before joining the crew. He was a damn good pilot, but not too good a much else (though, when Mal voiced this, a single look from a less-than-pleased Zoë was enough for him to take it back).

River was out because Mal preferred his plates as wholes, not in pieces. She called it 'art'. Mal called it 'broken'.

And Mal was out because, well, Mal was the captain. He was allowed to skip out on dish duty on account of being the one to provide for his crew in every way that didn’t leave soap suds beneath his nails.

Which left Jayne and Simon. Jayne _or_ Simon, rather.

-

Jobs had been plentiful these past few weeks and there was no telling when their supply of work would come to an end. Delivery jobs, con jobs, search-and-rescue jobs. Seemed like every man, woman, and child in the 'verse was asking for their help, and Mal was more than happy to provide. Mal, true to form, would line up any and every job he could take—provided the reward was decent and the expectations weren’t too taxing—and created a steady stockpile to hold them over during the inevitable crash. Things could only be good for so long.

More jobs meant more money. More money meant everyone was able to get their fair pay and then some. More money meant more could go back into Serenity, meant they could afford to fix that leaky valve dripping inside of Inara’s shuttle, could afford premium fuel over the cheap _fèiwù_ that Kaylee swore was only blackening their engines ‘ _darker than Beaumonde’s moons_ ’. More money also meant they could afford fineries like fresh fruit in place of protein bars and leafy greens in place of mushy food that came in a can.

Better ingredients meant better dishes. Better dishes meant _more_ dishes. And ‘more dishes’ had grown to a sink so stuffed full of pots, pans, plates, and bowls that there wasn't any room for water. Each of the crew members danced delicately around the mountain. Mal was waiting for the moment Serenity hit an air pocket too harshly, for all of their nice dishware to decorate their kitchen floor, for River to have more 'art'. When that moment came, he’d have someone to blame.

-

Jayne _or_ Simon.

Both of whom were left sitting at the kitchen table eyeballing each other. Still. Waiting for the other to give in. They had gone back and forth, paused, repeated. The pause was to collect thoughts, to strategize. The pause was leading up to what Simon’s mom would have called ‘ _bickering_ ’ and Jayne’s mom would have called ‘ _bitching_ ’. Simon sat with his hands folded, fingers laced across the table, eyes patient, demeanor diplomat-calm. Jayne sat with his arms folded across his chest, legs kicked out, head tilted back, appraising, perhaps glaring, perhaps both. Jayne twitched his nose. Simon raised an eyebrow. Neither of them yielded.

It was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

“You... have no reason not to wash the dishes, Jayne,” Simon tried once more. He spoke slowly, softly, nodding his head with each word. It worked with River on her good days. “The dishes are right there. You’re right here. You’re halfway there already.”

“Don’t want to,” Came the reply, gruff, unwavering. It was as simple as that.

“I have things to do, Jayne,” And he did. Simon always had things to do. There were River-things. There were the more rare personal-things. There were the doctor-things, like how he had to reclaim his suite from where Mal, or Zoë, or _Jayne_ , most likely, had rummaged through in search of God knows what and left a mess in their wake. Zoë, at least, was courteous enough to place things back where she found them. Jayne and the captain didn’t share the same kindness.

“Ain’t I got stuff to do, too?” Jayne frowned.

“Cleaning your guns doesn’t count.” When Jayne opened his mouth to retaliate, Simon added, “Whatever else it is you do down in your bunk doesn’t count, either.”

There was a pause when Jayne shifted and Simon felt a brush of hope. It faded as quickly as it came as Simon realized Jayne was only switching legs to have his opposite ankle crossed over the opposite knee.

“Got other stuff to do, damn it.”  
  
“No, you don’t.”  
  
“Still ain’t cleaning no _tāmāde_ dishes.”

“Gentleman, _language_ ,” Zoë chided as he stepped through the doorway. She’d come in search of a snack but, seeing as the dishes still hadn’t been attended to since this little stalemate began, it felt as if she’d walked into a headache instead. Why Mal had assumed this dish debacle couldn’t be solved with something as simple as a chore wheel was beyond her.

“Ain’t fair, Zoë. Tell him. I do plenty ‘round here as it is,” Jayne wasn’t looking for approval as much as he was looking for a way out.

The extent of Jayne’s job description spanned ‘you shoot things when we need you to’ and the man didn’t wander too far off script. It wasn’t as if he didn’t do a good job on the field. It’s about _all_ he did, but Zoë wasn’t in the mind to say as much.

Instead, she picked up an apple from the countertop and, seeing as all of their paring knives were dirty, sliced into it with a butcher’s knife. It was comically large. “To be frank with you, I rightly don’t care who does them so long as they get done at some point. Preferably in this decade. You’re both grown.” She took a bite from a freshly cut apple slice and looked between the two of them. “You can settle this amongst yourselves.”

Jayne remained indignant while Simon felt as if he was being talk to like a child. Given this situation, however, he could see how it was warranted. The dishes debate had gone on for hours now and the only reason Simon hadn’t simply given in and accepted dish duty when it was asked of him was his growingly futile attempt at trying something new called ‘ _self-defense_ ’, a phrase which in his mind meant ‘ _not simply giving in to something because he felt compelled to, and doing something to assert his value to the crew as more than a dishwasher_ ’. 

The only caveat to his new assertion was his initial oversight: the fact that Jayne was just as stubborn as he was.

That, and Simon had never had to wash a dish in his life. He wasn’t ready to admit that he wasn’t entirely sure where to start.

Seeing that her words of encouragement did little to encourage either side, Zoë sighed and just barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Flip a coin, play tic-tac-toe, start a game of chess, I don’t care. Get it done. I don’t want to have this conversation again.” Despite the finality of her words, she knew this same situation would play out all over again come next week when someone else was looking for away to sidestep away from their duties. She felt a tension growing behind her eyebrows and wondered if the doctor had a pill for that.

This had gone on for long enough, Simon agreeed. 

But there was something Zoë had said. 

“Come on, Jayne can’t play chess.” 

The response came to him too easily. Learning that the man was capable of reading had come as some shock to him. Simon understood that he may have been underestimating his fellow crewman to some extent. But then again, he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.

“What you mean I can’t play chess? Anyone can play chess, boy. Ain’t but so complicated.” Jayne scoffed and, judging by Zoë’s expression, rightfully so.

Shifting from mounting annoyance to amusement, Zoë spoke between bites of apple. “You figure chess is only played on those cushy Core planets?” Zoë raised her eyes to greet Kaylee, freshly stained in oil, as she stepped into the kitchen, but continued on speaking. “Dates back to Earth-that-Was, I figure.” Simon nodded, she was right; chess as a game was assumed to date back to some time before 10A.D. on Earth-that-Was, but Zoë continued on. “Real popular out on the Rim. Ain’t like folks got shit else to do. It’s a boring way to pass the time, but it keeps you going. Played in plenty in the barracks. Jayne here might be the best player on this ship. Might be. Couldn’t be sure. I’ve never played him.”

“We talkin’ ‘bout _qí_?” Kaylee grabbed an apple for herself and bit into it without a moment of hesitation. The action looked to unnerve Zoë to some degree, but she kept her feelings to herself. “Didn’t know you was a _xià qí de rén_ , Jayne!” Kaylee spoke through her food instead of around it, but her words were distinguishable enough. She smiled wide at the revelation, her joy countering Simon’s state of confusion.

“I’m sorry,” It was taking all that Simon had not to sputter, “ _Jayne_? This _Jayne_? _Right here_? The man I watched pick his teeth with a carving knife just this morning?”

“The very same,” Zoë chuckled at Simon’s late-stage bewilderment and finished her apple.

“’Was clean.” Jayne shrugged, speaking of the blade and saying nothing of the heavy accusations placed upon him. Not only knowledgeable in chess but the _best_ chess player on the ship? Potentially better than _Zoë_ , a career tactical strategist during her time in war? Could Jayne suffer from some sort of Savant Syndrome? It could explain his hand-eye coordination, his skill with weaponry, and lack of skill in... every other category. But _chess_? That required an entirely different set of skill independent of the secondary visual cortex, primarily the  visual association area. Could the frontal and parietal cortices _both_ be hyperactive? Their proximity could play some part...

“Don’t like how you’re lookin’ at me, boy.” Jayne grunted and Simon placed his imaginary dissection of Jayne’s mind on pause.

“Zoë,” Simon looked over his shoulder, “Could you get us a board?” He needed to see for himself. It would be just like the crew of Serenity, like Malcolm in particular more than Zoë, to try to convince him of something so asinine. _Jayne being some kind of genius?_ Perish the thought. And it would be just like Simon to fall for it. Between Jayne and Zoë both, it didn't seem like either of them were pulling any gags, and Kaylee’s enthusiasm seemed as solid as ever as she reached for another apple. Surely _she_ couldn’t have been on it too. Zoë, in response, didn't answer verbally but nodded as she made his way back out the way she'd came. Curious, Kaylee followed after her.

“Never said I was doin’ nothin’,” Jayne interjected. “Never agreed to nothin’. Who says I even feel fit to play?”

“Loser does dishes,” Simon offered.

“Not good enough,” Jayne had unfolded his arms, at least. The interest was there.

“No dishes for the rest of the month.”

“Gettin’ there.”

Simon grimaced. How had a debate over who does dishes become a wager for the ‘ _privilege_ ’ to play Jayne at all? If this was a gag, it was working. Simon was willing to sacrifice his freedom—from chores, that is—for the rest of his stay on Serenity just to see Jayne beat him in a match. He wouldn’t even mind doing the dishes if it turned out to be true, if he turned out to be the chess champion Zoë had described him as. In the end, there wasn’t much to lose. If Simon was correct in the suspicion that it was all some sort of joke, then Jayne would lose the game and Simon wouldn’t have to handle any dishes for a long, long time. If it turned out true, Jayne wins, and Simon has no choice but to believe in miracles.

“No dishes. Ever. Next time someone calls on the winner for dishes, the loser has to do them instead. Forever.” _Or at least until Mal invests in a dishwasher._

Jayne gave him a long, hard look before straightening in his seat. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” was the closest he came to a formal agreement and he hawked and spat into his hand before offering it across the table.

Simon didn't hesitate. “I’m not shaking that.”  
  
Jayne looked down at his hand, unfazed.  
  
“Guess we ain’t playing, then.”

Simon debated, _really debated,_ about how much this chess game meant to him. 

Jayne rolled his eyes for a second time. “C’mon, Doc. You cut folks open for fun. Don’t mean to tell me yer scared of a little spit.” Jayne wiggled his fingers, growing antsy, and Simon didn’t have the patience to point out all the things wrong with that statement. Instead, he tried mirroring the man’s action. He snorted and spat lamely into his own hand, ignoring the wave of disgust that came along with the action and glad for the girls’ departure. The shake itself was moist and sloppy and the sensation that came from feeling their saliva combine was enough for Simon to require a shower immediately.

“Swapping spit with the enemy,” River appeared in the doorway, startling both men both enough to cause them to jump. “Capturing castles, sacrificing the small men.” She stepped into the kitchen languidly, like a cat, and picked up an apple for herself. “It's like they always say: may the best man win.”


End file.
